


Out of the Woods

by beggarscantbchoosers



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Meetings, I CANNOT EMPHASISE THAT ENOUGH THERE ARE SLURS, Innuendo, Leo probably is too tbh, Leo rescues him, M/M, PEOPLE ARE NOT VERY NICE, Pre-Canon, Slurs, Zo gets beaten up, Zo is smitten, because what is a Leo-Zo friendship without its innuendo, no one dies or anything, oooh that's a tag that's good to know, there's also blood etc but not loads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3858199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beggarscantbchoosers/pseuds/beggarscantbchoosers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Zoroaster risked peeking through the cage of his arms, only to see some skinny, dark haired kid, maybe a year younger than Zoroaster himself and probably half the size of the four aggressors, leaning casually against the wall with a half eaten apple in one hand, and a slight smirk on his face."</p>
<p>Of course no friendship of Leonardo da Vinci's was going to begin in anything less than dramatic fashion. A first meetings fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Firmly manning the "Zo is a half Jewish, half Turkish orphaned street-rat" headcanon thank you and goodbye.
> 
> Also on tumblr as "Sticks and Stones" (I'm incapable of choosing good titles, fight me)

Zoroaster, in his fifteen years of life, had gotten more than used to the reactions he got, simply by walking down the street. Shop owners, street traders and merchants all eyed him suspiciously, wary lest he attempt to rob them. Men put a hand over their money purses, mothers clutched their unwed daughters close, and even the street rats hissed to each other. Muttered barbs followed him wherever he went: ‘Mongrel’ or ‘Half-breed’, ‘Jewish vermin’ or ‘Filthy Turk’ and ‘Thieving scum’ were some of the least offensive ones. He’d learnt, over the years, to ignore them, to let their words and glares slide off him, returning them with witty quips and suggestive grins that showed his lack of concern for their opinions.

  
That didn’t mean they didn’t hurt, though. And though most of the time, he succeeded in ignoring them, there were occasions where the snide comments cut a little too deep, or worse, were accompanied by physical violence, instead of just threats. Zoroaster had become quite good at brawling thanks to the frequent practice, but even he was struggling against the four older boys currently cornering him in an alley, scant meters away from the entrance to the Jewish Quarter, where he would have been perhaps not _safe_ , precisely, but _safer_.

“What’s the matter, mongrel?” The ringleader jeered, swinging one meaty fist in a move that looked random, and yet slammed directly into the same spot that his last three hits had landed. Zoroaster let out a grunt of pain, but refused to offer his attackers the satisfaction of anything more. “Thought you Turks were meant to be _tough._ ”

“Guess it must be his whore of a mother’s filthy blood that makes him weak.” One of the others sneered, spitting on the ground at Zoroaster’s feet. Zoroaster forced a grin, teeth bloody from where he’d bitten his tongue, lower lip split and swollen from an earlier punch, and one of his eyes already starting to blacken quiet spectacularly. He shrugged, before raising his fists again, not ready to give up just yet.

“Sorry lads, just a bit tired from fucking all four of your mothers in one night.” He winked his unbruised eye, licking blood from his lip and smirking lasciviously at them, despite his injuries. “Such insatiable sluts.” He leered. The older boys scowled at him, and he took another handful of blows to the ribs and stomach for it. This time, when he went down, he didn’t get back up again; his attackers switched from their fists to their feet, jeering as they kicked, Zoroaster curling up in an attempt to protect his face and vital organs whilst they laughed at him.

“Coward!”

“You know,” A voice that Zoroaster didn’t recognise cut through the taunts and vitriol spewing from the snarling gobs of the four older boys, who paused in their attack and turned. Zoroaster risked peeking through the cage of his arms, only to see some skinny, dark haired kid, maybe a year younger than Zoroaster himself and probably half the size of the four aggressors, leaning casually against the wall with a half eaten apple in one hand, and a slight smirk on his face. “I always thought ganging up on someone smaller than you was more of a sign of cowardice than anything else.” He took a bite of his apple, then grinned around the chunk of fruit before chewing it. The ringleader of the boys glanced at his thugs, scowling, then took a step forwards.

“Da Vinci.” He sneered. “This doesn’t concern you, so just run along back to your paints and charcoals, before you get hurt.”

“Can’t draw with broken fingers.” One of the others agreed, and Zoroaster winced as he attempted to shift without drawing attention to himself. He wasn’t entirely convinced he could stand yet, so making a run for it and letting the idiot over there take his hammering for him wasn’t really a possibility. Besides, he wasn’t sure his conscience – and damn that thing to hell, anyway – would allow it. The boy was a twig that these thugs would snap, all for the minor offence of stopping them from beating a half-Jewish, half-Turk orphaned street rat into a bloody pulp in a back alley. If Zoroaster were to die… Well, his uncle might mourn him, but at the end of the day, he would hardly be missed. Piero da Vinci’s bastard son though… Despite the scorn with which his father treated him, the boy – or his name, at least - was well known throughout Florence, and he was supposedly a talented artist, to boot. Certainly more important that Zoroaster.

“Well if you _really_ want to test me…” The boy grinned again, finishing his apple and tossing the core aside before spreading his arms wide and bowing, elaborate and mockingly, before straightening up again, a sly smirk taking the place of his challenging smile of a moment before. “I’m sure you’ve heard the tales of what happened to the last _idiot_ who crossed me.” Zoroaster hadn’t, but his attackers evidently had; they shifted uncomfortably, glancing at each other.

“C’mon, it’s not worth it.” One of the lackeys said, already making to move out; the ringleader hesitated a moment longer, then sneered at da Vinci, spitting in his general direction.

“Yeah, leave the bastard and the mongrel. They deserve each other. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.” He simpered mockingly, before turning and striding off, the other three keeping pace with him easily. Zoroaster groaned as he managed to pull himself into a sitting position; da Vinci hurried over and reached down to help him stand, eyeing him critically, the hand not wrapped around his arm poking at his ribs and stomach. Zoroaster groaned again, and batted the concerned boy away, unable to summon the enthusiasm for one of his usual lewd remarks.

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to die.” His saviour said dryly, after apparently finishing his examination.

“Unlike you, next time one of ‘em comes across you on a dark night. What the fuck were you thinking?” Zoroaster hissed, wrapping his free arm around his stomach and swaying on his feet. He attempted to pull his other arm out of da Vinci’s grip, but the boy just clung tighter.

“I was thinking you have a fascinating profile that I would really like to sketch some time.” He murmured, gazing raptly at Zoroaster’s beaten and bloody face. “Once it’s all healed up, of course. Little hard to do that if you died.” Zoroaster snorted.

“Pull the other one mate, it’s got bells on.” He attempted to pull away again, limping towards the entrance of the alley, but the boy merely moved with him, still attempting to take Zoroaster’s weight; after a moment, the older boy gave in, allowing da Vinci to support him. Moving was agony; his sides burnt and he was fairly sure he’d cracked a couple of ribs, along with his myriad of other injuries.

“I’m serious!” The boy insisted, just a hint of childish whine in his voice. Zoroaster ignored him. “Look, look, stop, hang on-” Zoroaster almost dropped again at the abrupt disappearance of his human walking stick; he stumbled to a stop as the boy ducked out from under his arm and stood in front of him, one hand stuck out. “I’m Leonardo. Leonardo da Vinci.”

“I know.” Zoroaster frowned, glancing at the outstretched hand, then back up to its owner’s earnest face. He sighed, and shook the hand. “Zoroaster.” He didn’t offer a surname. He didn’t have one to give. Leonardo wrinkled his nose.

“That’s a mouthful.”

“I’ll tell you what else is a mouthful.” Zoroaster leered, apparently recovered enough for his humour to return. Leonardo looked at him flatly.

“If it’s only a mouthful, I’m not very impressed.” Zoroaster choked on something that might have been a laugh; Leonardo continued as if the interruption had never occurred. “I think I’ll call you Zo, instead.”

“Easier to scream, I suppose.” The newly dubbed Zo suggested, and this time, Leonardo looked up at him coyly, before letting his gaze drag down Zo’s entire body, then back up again. He smirked a little, ever so slightly suggestive.

“There is that.” He allowed, and Zo swallowed. “Now come on, come back to the studio, I’ll get you bandaged up.”

“And then sketch me?” Zo asked, the snide tone in his voice making it clear he still doubted that was Leonardo’s real reason for helping him out. The boy just smiled indulgently.

“If you like, though as I said, I’d rather wait until you’ve healed up a bit. Though I suppose a study of your injuries _could_ be interesting…”

“Why?” Zo said, abruptly, refusing to move even as Leonardo took his arm again, attempting to tug him along. Even in such a state, it wasn’t hard – the boy really was just skin and bones, even slimmer than Zoroaster himself, who went without food so often that hunger was a near constant companion. At least he had _some_ muscle tone, from helping weary sailors on the dock who didn’t care who they paid to shift cargo for them, as long as they didn’t have to do it.

“I told you.” Leonardo huffed, apparently exasperated, but still tugging on Zo’s arm. “Your face is…” He paused, apparently searching for the right adjective. Zo’s brain helpfully provided a few for him; he was used to scorn, his looks foreign enough that native Florentines avoided him, or sneered, lumping him in with the Jews, and yet different enough from his mother’s people that even there he was an interloper, an outcast due to the Turkish blood and colouring that was all his father had left him with. He was more than familiar with all the taunts his mixed heritage had earnt him in the past. “Striking.” Leonardo finished, eyes fixed on Zoroaster’s face again, and the older boy swallowed again. The awe in Leonardo’s face, the way his fingers twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to either touch or grab a drawing implement, were honest enough that he could tell the other wasn’t mocking him, as much as experience told him should be happening.

“R-right then.” He said, after a moment, uncomfortable under the artist’s scrutiny. “If you insist. Bloody weirdo.” He added, as an afterthought, but there wasn’t much heat in it. The younger boy beamed at him, as if he’d agreed to something far more important than allowing Leonardo to draw him, and Zo stared at that smile for a long moment, continued to stare even as Leonardo turned and tried to drag him off again. This time, he allowed himself to be tugged along, despite how his bruised ribs protested the movement. And as the boy chattered away, something about charting the progress of Zo’s injuries as they healed through a series of sketches, Zo realised with an uncertain twist to his stomach that he could fall for this boy, for that smile, and that enthusiasm – perhaps had started to the moment he’d peered out from between his arms to see the brat face down and chase off four boys twice his size without flinching. It was a terrifying thought, and he sought to distract himself.

“So if you’re gonna call me Zo, does that mean I can call you Leo?” The boy in question glanced back and up at him, expression considering, though he didn’t pause, weaving his way through the market’s crowds with an unconscious grace.

“Yes, alright.” He agreed, finally, grinning again, and somehow, Zo found himself grinning right back.


End file.
